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Mark Twain
Date of Birth: Nov. 30, 1835
Dateof Death: April 21, 1910
Biography: Samuel Langhorne Clemens, also known as Mark Twain, was one of America’s most famous literary figures. Mark Twain was born at Missouri on November 30th, 1835 and was one of the seven children in his family. At the age of 4, he moved to Mississippi. He was usually kept indoors because of his health. Right after his father died from pneumonia,he became a printer's apprentice, a newspaper editor and a printer assistant. Because of his childhood, he started to have an interest in writing. Most of his writing was based on his experiences and memories as a child.
Poems by Mark Twain:
Genius Genius, like gold and precious stones, is chiefly prized because of its rarity.
Geniuses are people who dash of weird, wild, incomprehensible poems with astonishing facility, and get booming drunk and sleep in the gutter.
Genius elevates its possessor to ineffable spheres far above the vulgar world and fills his soul with regal contempt for the gross and sordid things of earth.
It is probably on account of this that people who have genius do not pay their board, as a general thing.
Geniuses are very singular.
If you see a young man who has frowsy hair and distraught look, and affects eccentricity in dress, you may set him down for a genius.
If he sings about the degeneracy of a world which courts vulgar opulence and neglects brains, he is undoubtedly a genius.
If he is too proud to accept assistance, and spurns it with a lordly air at the very same time that he knows he can't make a living to save his life, he is most certainly a genius.
If he hangs on and sticks to poetry, not withstanding sawing wood comes handier to him, he is a true genius.
If he throws away every opportunity in life and crushes the affection and the patience of his friends and then protests in sickly rhymes of his hard lot, and finally persists, in spite of the sound advice of persons who have got sense but not any genius, persists in going up some infamous back alley dying in rags and dirt, he is beyond all question a genius.
But above all things, to deftly throw the incoherent ravings of insanity into verse and then rush off and get booming drunk, is the surest of all the different signs of genius.
Warm Summer Sun Warm summer sun, Shine kindly here Warm southern wind, Blow softly here. Green sod above, Lie light, lie light. Good night, dear heart, Good night, good night.
Mark Twain
Date of Birth: Nov. 30, 1835Date of Death: April 21, 1910
Biography:Samuel Langhorne Clemens, also known as Mark Twain, was one of America’s most famous literary figures. Mark Twain was born at Missouri on November 30th, 1835 and was one of the seven children in his family. At the age of 4, he moved to Mississippi. He was usually kept indoors because of his health. Right after his father died from pneumonia,he became a printer's apprentice, a newspaper editor and a printer assistant. Because of his childhood, he started to have an interest in writing. Most of his writing was based on his experiences and memories as a child.
Poems by Mark Twain:
Genius
Genius, like gold and precious stones,
is chiefly prized because of its rarity.
Geniuses are people who dash of weird, wild,
incomprehensible poems with astonishing facility,
and get booming drunk and sleep in the gutter.
Genius elevates its possessor to ineffable spheres
far above the vulgar world and fills his soul
with regal contempt for the gross and sordid things of earth.
It is probably on account of this
that people who have genius
do not pay their board, as a general thing.
Geniuses are very singular.
If you see a young man who has frowsy hair
and distraught look, and affects eccentricity in dress,
you may set him down for a genius.
If he sings about the degeneracy of a world
which courts vulgar opulence
and neglects brains,
he is undoubtedly a genius.
If he is too proud to accept assistance,
and spurns it with a lordly air
at the very same time
that he knows he can't make a living to save his life,
he is most certainly a genius.
If he hangs on and sticks to poetry,
not withstanding sawing wood comes handier to him,
he is a true genius.
If he throws away every opportunity in life
and crushes the affection and the patience of his friends
and then protests in sickly rhymes of his hard lot,
and finally persists,
in spite of the sound advice of persons who have got sense
but not any genius,
persists in going up some infamous back alley
dying in rags and dirt,
he is beyond all question a genius.
But above all things,
to deftly throw the incoherent ravings of insanity into verse
and then rush off and get booming drunk,
is the surest of all the different signs
of genius.
Warm Summer Sun
Warm summer sun,
Shine kindly here
Warm southern wind,
Blow softly here.
Green sod above,
Lie light, lie light.
Good night, dear heart,
Good night, good night.